Killing of the Last Light
by Gypsy Feet
Summary: xOneshotxThis isn't some depressing story, actually a rather lighthearted one, considering. It's about Jack's time on the dauntless when they're traveling to Port Royal after potc. Please read it.


**Killing The Last Of The Light**

**By Emmy**

**qpqpqp**

Jack Sparrow decided that noise was Not A Good Thing, in fact, in the right (perhaps wrong, depending on which way you looked upon things) way it might be considered a Bad Thing. Jack didn't _dislike_ it, per se, simply resented it for the time being. A fairly common occurrence, he surmised, when one was locked with the remnants of his very own mutinous crew. They'd hurled everything they could muster at him (proverbial and otherwise) which resulted in a home for a nicely sized bruise, fitting in well with the neighborhood of scars and grime, on his left arm. He held the offender (a slightly rotten looking piece of wood) in his right hand and a knife (the very same one that had nearly relieved him of his big toe) in his left, and was busy letting his hands whittle as his mind wandered.

He assumed it was well into the second night by now (for one must assume such things when they sat in a place that neither the sun nor moon shined) and his fellow (mutinous) brig occupants were asleep, leaving him fairly alone. The crew sat in spacious cell across from him, for even Norrington's blessed laws could not overturn down-right logic, and a lamp still flickered. Jack had spent the better part of an hour pondering over the fact that an intelligent man like the commodore could let the flame escape his attention; he'd then spent the rest of that hour trying to do good for mankind by extinguishing that very flame.

He'd been unusually unsuccessful.

But perhaps it was his unconscious-self who still feared being left alone in the dark that countered his conscious-self's efforts and had ultimately been the downfall of his quest. Probably. Jack then wondered what else his unconscious-self feared, but decided that his line of thought was treading the road of soul-searching and changed it. He sidestepped the topic of his inevitable visiting with the noose and decided that it was high time for him to come up with a plan to save his skin and, preferably, the rest of him.

Having decided that his chances of coming into contact with an army of conveniently placed cannibals should be placed under the category of Highly Improbable (along with the rest of his plans) he felt the beginnings of one of his ingenious plans wrap her slender fingers around his brain, before slipping away, leaving only the memory of her teasing caress. Damning his luck (or lack thereof, once again depending on one's point of view) he came to the conclusion that every deity disliked him.

It was about that time that a certain Blacksmith's Apprentice waltzed his way down the stairs (Jack didn't think, or see, that in the literal sense). The dark featured boy grimaced at the sight and smell of Jack's surroundings but continued on with a familiar single mindedness.

Jack, being a captain at heart and therefore control-obsessed, began the conversation with the first 'witty' greeting that came to mind, perfectly complemented by a voice roughened by throwing similarly 'witty' retorts at the sleeping occupants of the opposite cell.

"Did she find out?"

William Turner, having been deprived of his father's crude sense of humor, didn't understand. He made that abundantly clear in his reply: "What?"

"You know," a dramatic pause, "Snip, snip." Jack added the appropriate hand gestures to further reinforce his innuendo, just incase the lad was completely thick.

A martyr's frown was all he received for his effort, but Jack had never liked to think of himself as a greedy sort, so he was thankful for the measly show of displeasure.

"Actually I came down here to let you know that Norrington wants to speak to you soon, I don't know what about so don't bother ask," he glanced down his nose at where Jack was sitting, looking uncomfortable or uneasy, Jack wasn't sure, "and…" a pause, "to see if they were treating you alright."

Surprised and, admittedly, suspicious, Jack frowned. "Well, I suppose it depends on who 'they' are. _They_" Here he motioned to the snoring lumps of muscle, "aren't a very nice sort, who don't particularly _like_ me, so they aren't treating me all that well. Now, _they_" here he motioned above his head, presumably to the crew and redcoats, "are doing their best to forget that they all did battle with some undead pirates and are far to busy to worry about _me_, so I presume they're treating me like I'm not there, or here, you can decide whether that's good or not. Lastly _they_" here he pointed to his imaginary army of cannibals, "aren't being very helpful." Having finished his speech Jack continued with his whittling noticing the familiar shape that his hands were creating.

"Oh," the confused pirate's son replied.

"Oh," Jack agreed, deciding that Bill's son had the intellect of a sloshed caterpillar.

The aforementioned son took his time in re-gathering his wits, in the time provided Jack managed to complete his little masterpiece. When the silence continued (bar the sounds of the sea against the hull) Jack found it increasingly difficult to entertain himself, so he began to study the little wooden figured. Gently, so gently that Jack wasn't quite sure when it started, his ingenious plan that had danced just out of grasp for an infuriatingly long (though in reality it was in fact quite short) period of time slowly seized his brain. Taking his time to second and third guess everybody's likely courses of action he decided that he was much superior in intelligence to the rest of his fellow mortals. He stood up, having realized that the conversation had been dead for a surprisingly long time and was unlikely to revive itself, he made his own.

"William, me lad, I've made you a present," his friend's offspring roused himself from what Jack suspected to be soul-searching (must be something in the air, he though absently) and set a pair of obsidian-looking eyes on his own. Rather then confusing The Boy With The Intellect Of A Sloshed Caterpillar with words, Jack merely motioned for him to put his hand out. When William did as was expected Jack slipped the wooden figurine into his hand with a conspirator's wink which he hoped would prompt some more soul-searching that involved the rescuing of a certain Father's Best Friend. Not that one can really soul-search on the matter, but Jack understood his own thoughts, so it didn't matter what anyone else thought about his thoughts… or his way of thinking that involved near indecipherable portrayals of those thoughts. Or his odd ability to make as much sense as a sloshed caterpillar that spoke French backwards.

None of that mattered.

What mattered was that Will had to understand what he meant by the figurine, shaped unmistakably like a certain mute's parrot.

A frown informed him that William Turner was going to be doing some soul-searching (or whatever it was called) on the desired topic.

Satisfied Jack turned to sit down before another thought occurred to him, prompting a rather fast turn and mad grab at the Apprentice's sleeve. Trying to regain his composure Jack smiled in a sickly sweet fashion.

"Oh, and William? Did you know that it is highly unintelligent to leave something burning after dark?"

The younger man proceeded to snuff out the last of Jack's light (his unconscious-self screamed in terror) but just as he reached the doorway he turned around, at least Jack thought he did, it was hard to tell when you couldn't see.

"Jack… in case you wanted to know, it'll be noon in an hour."

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**Hope you liked, please review if you care at all about my sloshed caterpillar farm, it'd greatly appreciate the support.**

**Emmy**


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